Dear Mr. Colbert:
For years, I've been a loyal viewer. It's you that taught me the meaning of true conservatism, fiscal responsibility, die-hard interviewing and awesome jam-tunes. When you put Michael Stipe on your shelf, I wept a little -- then denied it, knowing that's exactly what you'd do, too. I'm not ashamed to say: you, sir, are a hero and inspiration to me. You are the man I aspire to be -- only shorter.
Well, you were.
At some point, you went soft. You started taking the easy way out. After years of quick wit and brilliant word play, you turned to the oldest trick in the book. You started shitting on Detroit.
Mr. Colbert, you know as well as I do that trashing Detroit is nothing new. A long list of now-forgotten late night hosts, B-grade movie directors and washed-up comedians have fallen into the same, easy trap. And now it seems that you're hooked on the sweet, sweet nectar of a cheap, dirty laugh. I warn you, though: This will be your undoing.
Let's revisit some of your recent comments.
"...really, we should be suspicious of anyone who willingly moves to Detroit."
"As we speak, a defunct satellite is hurling toward the Earth where it will destroy everything in its path. Let's just pray it lands somewhere where it can't do any damage -- like Detroit."
"Someone could attempt the unthinkable and walk through downtown Detroit."
Notice a pattern? It's only getting worse, too. Soon, this disease of ease will consume you. So today I write to you out of love, not anger. I'm challenging you to walk through downtown Detroit because I know it will make you a better person. Restore your greatness. Refill your commendably large cranium with good ideas and sound comedy.
Think of the long-term, friend. Before long, you'll be crawling the New York Times bestseller list with you're aptly titled I Am Detroit And So Can You. You'll even consider changing your show's name to the Detroi Repoire. And eventually, you and the crew may just do a live remote where you sing Detroit's fight song (not by Eminem), followed by a symphony of flatulence.
This has got to end, Stephen (may I call you Stephen?). Face your demons. Shake off your addiction. Return to a brand of comedy that made you, well, you.
Come walk through downtown Detroit. Because soon, this city you malign so casually may be all you have left.